


Inside the Fire

by hooksdarkswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Deal with a Devil, F/M, Mild Language, Post Episode: s05e11 Swan Song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksdarkswan/pseuds/hooksdarkswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing her true love, Emma journeys to the Underworld to save him. When she finds herself face-to-face with the dark lord Mephistopheles, she makes a deal to escape with her life and Killian’s—but at what cost? Canon through "Swan Song."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Welcome to Inside the Fire, my first full-length OUAT fic. I was absolutely stunned by how much beautiful support I received from posting my two quick OUAT drabbles, and I was encouraged to try writing something on a larger scale.
> 
> I wanted to write a different take on Emma's journey to rescue Killian from the Underworld, and this is the end result. I'm not quite calling it a crossover, but since Disney, ABC, and Marvel are all part of the same family, I am borrowing a few villains from the Ghost Rider comic book series! You absolutely don't need a knowledge of Ghost Rider to read (and hopefully enjoy) this fic, however.
> 
> Thank you everyone so much in advance, thank you for accompanying Emma on this amazing journey! I hope you all will enjoy the ride as much as I am already!

She smoothed her fingers over the ring he’d given her, taking in every crook, every groove in the metal. He’d called it lucky, when he pressed it into her hands—something to keep her safe, to remind her of something  _ good  _ even when the curse’s weight was too much to carry on her own. Emma swore she could still feel the warmth of his skin there, filling up the empty silver circle. She could still feel his breath on her lips, his voice in her ear, his touch on her fingertips, his perfect weight on hers when he proved his love to her in the flower fields of Camelot. She could feel him  _ everywhere _ , giving her hope, pushing her forward, bringing her back to him. 

When hope dared to fail her, she remembered the warmth of his love, the way he flooded her world with light she could never have imagined. She remembered  _ him _ , alive and smiling at her, not the cold fingers she grasped when he was taken from her too soon. She remembered how it felt to be safe in  _ his  _ arms, not her parents’ when she collapsed into them, a sobbing mess. 

The memories made her stronger, fortified her resolve with something no one could steal away: her love for Killian. She lifted the ring to her lips and kissed it in promise. Her breath flared out before her in tiny, pale puffs.

It was her love for him that led her here, to the water’s edge, to the place where the world she knew would end and the one beneath would begin.  

When Emma next raised her eyes, she found a shadow moving slowly across the water. She recognized the skulking figure as the ferryman and his boat, come to carry them between the realms of the living and dead. She watched for a moment: the ripples made across the dark water, distorting her reflection, the shape of the boat’s scythe-like fixture as it bowed close to the murky surface. The ferryman himself was cloaked in a dark garb, hood hanging over his face—or whatever semblance of one he had. 

The ring dropped from Emma’s hand, swaying on the chain she kept it on. She looked back at her family, her friends, gathered behind her. It was a journey she would have gladly made alone, but she was relieved she wouldn’t have to.  

She nodded her head, ready, then turned to face her grim fate. Emma moved into the water and the coldness took her breath away, shooting up her body with icy pinpricks. It soaked through her jeans, sloshing against her skin in wicked waves of ice. It was cold enough to  _ hurt _ , cold enough to make her  _ feel _ —feel  _ something  _ for the first time since Killian’s last breath left him and Emma’s world went numb. 

She waded further, until her legs were covered and the water was to her waist, chilling her to the bone. The movement of the water behind her told her that her loved ones were with her, a quiet solace she held dear as the fog folded in on her. 

“Hook, I will find you,” Emma promised as she stepped onto the ferry. It rocked with her weight, but she remained steady—unlike her heart, which thudded rapidfire against her chest. She closed her eyes and embraced her fate, feeling the world she knew begin to fall far away from where she was standing. She reached for the ring one last time, grasping it near her heart. Of course, it wouldn’t be  _ hers  _ for very much longer—it would be  _ theirs _ , every beat in tandem, every flutter shared. 

She just had to find him, to save him. 

And she didn’t care that she would have to go through hell to do it. 

_ “I will  _ **_always_ ** _ find you.” _


	2. Into Hell

****Killian opened his eyes to a world he didn’t recognize.

The ground was hard, unforgiving, nothing like the safety of Emma’s arms, holding him until his last breath pushed through him. The air smacked of smoke and something fouler, something pungent he couldn’t place. It burned his nostrils and stunted his breath—or was he even breathing at all?

His chest felt tight, and his body impossibly heavy. A clarifying moment later and he realized the feeling was not his own, but one born of shackles: one around his middle, and two smaller ones that jingled on his ankles. Killian struggled against them, a knee-jerk reaction, but the weighty chains kept him from moving much farther from their tethering point. How they were even holding him, he wasn’t sure. In the darkness he could make out no discernible keyhole, no possible way they could be keeping him in place.

_Magic_ , he realized, bitter as he slumped against his bindings.

It wasn’t the end Killian expected, but the one he knew he deserved. He knew all along he would lose his happy ending, but he fooled himself, _deluded_ himself into thinking he could fight his destiny, that he could overcome the darkness he’d spent some two hundred years sidestepping. She’d been the ray of hope he never realized he needed, a blinding flash of light that came to him when his world was at its blackest. She made him believe in something _good_ , something better. She made him hope for a future, _their_ future, the one now left unfulfilled and empty on the shores of Storybrooke.

He always knew he would lose her in the end. Because someone like him could never deserve someone like Emma. Even in this place, the thought of her name—of _her_ —stirred in him something warm. It wasn’t like the burning heat that pressed against his skin, or the thickness that hung in the air. It was something pure and good and _powerful_ , and for a long moment he melted into the feeling, into the memories of Emma and everything they shared.

He recalled every moment they had together, from their first to their last to every other in between. Even his parting moment from earth belonged to her: her green eyes, clouded with tears as she plunged the dagger into him, ending their shared curse and his life. She was beautiful even in anguish, and he carried her image from their world into this strange one.

It wasn’t enough—an eternity with her beside him wouldn’t have been—but at once, it was _everything_. It was a lasting reminder that he’d given into love, not the revenge he’d once thirsted for. He’d died for Emma, for the ragtag group of people he’d come to call his friends. He’d died a hero, not the villain he believed he was.

At least, that’s what he thought.

In the moment he allowed himself to rest—if that’s what he could call the feel of his body against the hot, hard ground—a voice wrested him from his reverie.

“You didn’t die a hero, Killian Jones.”

The sound was gravel, as pleasant as pebbles gnashing beneath the wheels of the yellow _thing_ Emma insisted on calling a “bug.” Killian searched for the voice’s source, thrashing against the chains of fate he’d only just begun to accept. All he found was a shadow, hunched and pacing. Then, there was a low, inhuman cackle that rumbled from what seemed to be no where. The shadow advanced, becoming longer, more misshapen, until finally it was hovering over Killian, searing his skin with hot air that seemed to billow off its strange, contorted shape.

He wanted to question it, to fight it, to do _something_ , but the suffocating heat took his voice away. More laughter issued from—well, Killian wasn’t sure where—and the shade doubled in size. Just as he expected it to converge on him, to engulf him in something worse than death, the figure recoiled. As it did, he glimpsed the silhouette’s true form.  Something cold went through him, despite the heat heavy in the air.  

_“You didn’t die anything at all.”_

* * *

Emma woke gasping, her heart hanging in a place it didn’t belong. She blinked away her dream of Neal— _no, it was real, it had to be real_ —and oriented herself to the darkened world around her. A hand cupped her cheek. She recognized the gentleness at once as her mother’s. Emma leaned into her touch, reveling in what little comfort she could find at a time like this.

“Are you all right, Emma?” Mary Margaret asked, concerned. She braced her daughter’s arms and helped lift her to her feet. Emma’s steps were uneasy as the ferry floated across the water between worlds. “You passed out.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“You’re not,” her mother told her. Emma looked at her as well as she could through the inky darkness. Mary Margaret offered her a reassuring smile, a flash of hope in the bleakness. It moved a small warmth through Emma’s numb body. “We’ll find him. I promise.”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “We will.”

The ferry trembled as it reached its stopping point, a worn-looking dock that scarcely seemed safe to stand on its own, much less to walk across. It didn’t stop Emma, or even slow her down. She was the first off the vessel, jumping from it to the landing before her family could even stand. She was the first to feel the pier’s wooden boards creak and groan beneath her bootheels. She was the first to take in the Underworld’s air, hot and stagnant.

And she was the first to emerge on the other side, through the heavy fog that hovered over the dark lake’s surface.

Emma wasn’t sure what she expected—fire and brimstone, maybe, or something equally macabre—but it certainly wasn’t _this_. The Underworld was a disjointed version of Storybrooke, broken and twisted but at once just the same. A dull orange haze hung over the town, the color of a fire on its last breath. She recognized all the shops: Granny’s, the florist, the pawn shop. In her world, they were vibrant and full of life. In this one, they were dull and spiritless.

People Emma didn’t recognize moved through the streets in what seemed like a trance, their faces empty of all emotion. She couldn’t stomach thinking of Killian that way, his spirit subdued and broken, robbed of everything that made him so infuriatingly _wonderful_ . He wouldn’t be that way for long, she reminded herself. She would save him from this place, with love and not with darkness, the fatal flaw she made in Camelot. She would bring him home, to _their_ home, the place he gave to her with the promise of a future, of forever together. They would have their happy ending, the one he didn’t think he deserved, but the one she _knew_ he did. The one she never thought she would have, but he gave to her.

All she had to do was find him.

Emma rounded when she heard footsteps behind her, the others catching up. “What is this place?” she asked, turning on Mr. Gold with a flourish. Her eyes were fire, hot and unbridled. “Where’s Killian?”

“Calm down, Miss Swan. I only said I would bring you here. Now, if I’m not mistaken,” Gold paused, melodramatic, “it seems your pirate has ended up in the realm of Mephistopheles.”

Regina blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Are you saying there’s more than one Underworld?” Emma pressed.

Gold’s thin smile suggested the answer was obvious. “Of course there is. Surely you know that a singular world can’t hold all the souls from countless others.”

“This… Mephistopheles,” David said, stumbling over the name, “Do you know him?”

“As you know, your highness, I know a lot of things.”

“Do you know anything that could actually _help_ us?” Regina glowered.

Gold hesitated. A stern look from Emma, a silent promise to make do on the threat she issued back in the world of the living, made him cave. “Even if you manage to find Hook here, Mephistopheles won’t take very kindly to you removing his soul from his… collection. He is unlike any man, if you can call him that, you’ve ever encountered. He has unparalleled abilities, absolutely lethal here in this world—significantly weaker in ours, but that doesn’t help you lot very much, now does it?”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “So tell us what does.”

“Mephistopheles likes making deals,” Gold smirked.

Regina snorted. “A monster after your own heart.”

“Trust me,” Gold laughed, a hollow noise. “When you’re done dealing with him, you’ll be left wishing it were me instead.”

“I’m not afraid of Mephistopheles, or anyone else,” Emma said. “I just want to find Killian and bring him home.”

“And I wish you all the luck in the world,” Gold said. “Because believe me, dearie, you’re going to need it.”

Emma recognized the finality of his voice. She lurched to stop him, but it was too late: Gold was gone, vanished beneath a dark mist. He took with him the only knowledge they had of the orange hued Underworld and of its ruler, Mephistopheles. _The only way to rescue Hook,_ she thought, bitter.

Regina sighed, sweeping a hand through the dark of her hair. It was all starting to weigh on her: Gold’s familiar games, the insufferable heat, the figures that emptily shuffled around. The faces that Emma couldn’t place were ones Regina wished she couldn’t. She well remembered the countless droves of people she slaughtered as she carved her vengeful path through the Enchanted Forest. Every now and then, one of them glanced her way, and even in death the recognition was clear on their otherwise vacant expressions. She pulled Henry closer to her, keeping one arm snugly around his shoulders; the other was loosely twisted with Robin’s.

“You’ve been quiet, Henry,” she said, looking down at him.

Henry shook his head. “I just feel like I’ve heard that name before. Mephistopheles.” He repeated it over and over until it formed a song on his lips, one he’d forgotten the chorus to. Then, it hit him at once. His eyes flashed excitedly between his mothers. “That’s it—it’s like the comic book character.”

“The what?” Emma looked hopeful. “Henry, have you read about Mephistopheles before?”

“I think so. Before I found the storybook, I read a lot of comics. There was a bad guy a lot like the one grandpa—Mr. Gold, I mean—described. He mostly went by Mephisto, but his real name was Mephistopheles.”

“Is that possible?” asked Robin, his eyes searching between Regina’s and Henry’s.

“Comics aren’t so different than normal storybooks, are they?” Mary Margaret started. “They’re stories about heroes and villains, love and hope and—”

Regina rolled her eyes. “You can’t go five minutes without saying that word, can you?” she paused a moment longer, mulling over the little information they had. “It makes sense. The Sorcerer and his Apprentice selected Authors for eons, well before any of us were even alive. They very well could have influenced, or even written, some of the same comics Henry ended up with.” Another moment and then she asked, “Do you still have those comics in your room?”

“I think so,” Henry said. “Why?”

“If everything else is the same here,” Regina gestured to Main Street, “then our homes and belongings might be here as well. There could be something in those comics that will help us find Hook and get the hell out of this place.”

Emma felt something stir in her. She thought again of the home Killian gave to her, their promised future off the ocean’s banks. A bitter pang in her gut reminded her they’d yet to share it, but something stronger moved her forward. After his death, it was in their home that Emma found the closest thing she could to rest. Perhaps in this world he’d found the same.

She spun to face the distant sea, in this world robbed of its crystal blue waters. It wasn’t far, a few miles at most—though even a thousand or more wouldn’t have deterred her. She found the ring around her neck and held it to her, then turned to face her family. “I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asked. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going home.”


	3. Welcome Home

****A blink of Killian’s eyes and the monster was gone, replaced by a man, tall and deathly pale. Yellow hair, the color of fool’s gold, was slicked back away from his high forehead. He propped himself with a polished silver walking stick, not unlike the one the Crocodile carried around. This one was different in its decoration: a crystal skull, its vacant sockets gaping above a skeletal grin, adorned its top. It glimmered oddly in the darkness.

He moved around Killian, making jagged figure-eights punctuated by the rhythmic _tap_ of his cane. The lazy double-circles, combined with the wing-like flap of his long, black coat, made him look like a vulture sizing his carrion, waiting for it to breathe its last.

Killian looked at him with defiance in his eyes. Whatever sort of beast this man was, he was sure he’d faced worst. “And who are you to deem my sacrifice so unworthy?” he spat.

“My name isn’t important, Killian,” replied the stranger. His voice was rough, treacherous like the waters the Jolly Roger once cut through. “Or do you prefer Captain Hook?”

The pirate smirked. “So you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of everyone.”

“Is this hell, then?”

The stranger grinned. His eyes glinted a color that Killian couldn’t place as human, a bright gold that pulsed with hunger. They shimmered in the darkness, like a cat’s. “Is that where you think you belong?” he asked, the amusement carrying his throaty voice a notch higher. He studied Killian’s expression for a long moment, enjoying the conflict that danced there. Sated by the man’s obvious discomfort, he centered his hands and a world was born between them, a vision Killian found both foreign and familiar.

He was staring at Storybrooke—or some version of it—mangled and warped against an orange-red sky. The clock tower lay toppled over, its face cracked in the middle of Main Street. Bodies with expressionless faces moved between the shops, in this image strangely lacking in color. The stranger dropped his hands and the vision faded into nothing. “It’s not so different from home, now is it?” he asked.

“There are a few commodities I might miss,” he said. “Why am I here?”

“Well, you’re the only one who can answer that.” The stranger smiled. He loved watching the intrigue in the other man’s eyes as he spoke, the flicker of curiosity he would have oh so much fun toying with. He continued, “There are two types of souls here: those who can’t move on, and those who I’ve… acquired.”

_Is that it?_ Killian wondered. Was it his love for Emma, tethering him to this world just beyond the waking one? Was he so tormented over losing her, his future, his happy ending that he couldn’t find his final resting place?

The stranger seemed to read his mind. “Tell me about Emma,” he said. This time, Killian _knew_ he saw the strange man’s eyes flash gold. He froze.

“How do you know her name?” he breathed.

“Weren’t you listening? I know everyone. And I know that she’s here, right now,” the stranger paused for effect, watching the man’s eyes go wide. His smile doubled, stretching his face unnaturally as he thought of how he’d enjoy crushing that hope later. “I know that she's searching for you. I know that she won't stop until she finds you.”

“If you touch her—”

The stranger raised his hands in false surrender. “I wouldn't dream of it,” he said, smiling. Killian didn't believe him. He thrashed against his bindings, grunting as his shoulder hit the hot, hard ground. A low chuckle, like thunder rumbling over the sea, escaped the mysterious figure.

“I’ve been watching her. The product of true love…” He paused as if he'd uttered the foulest of curses. ‘Love’ tasted strange on his tongue. He feared it as much as he loathed it. It was the only thing that could unravel him, the only magic powerful enough to undo his many lifetimes of ruthlessness. It could free every soul he kept locked away, drain him of his darkest power, reduce his legacy to nothing more than a scary story to be passed around at bedtime. Grimacing, he banished the thought to the shadows of his mind where it belonged.

Even though Emma’s powers were rooted in goodness and passion and everything the stranger hated the most, he wasn’t sure she had the strength alone to destroy him. _Injure_ him, perhaps, but it would take more than just a child of true love to end him entirely. To defeat an entity as powerful as himself, sired in darkness and brutality and everything love stood to oppose, would require not just a single child of true love, but one of generations. It was uncommon: to his delight, few mortals ever found true love, and fewer who did ever saw their children find the same. Part of the potency of love magic came from its rarity. True love passing through the same bloodline more than once was all but unheard of. Never in his many lifetimes had the threat even crossed his ancient mind. Until now...

He stopped the thought in its tracks. Such worrisome thoughts were beneath him. Everything was falling into place; there were only a few more steps needed to assure his eternal reign. He might as well start taking them.

With a devious grin, he looked down at Killian. “I think I’ll pay her a visit, if you don’t mind.”

“NO!” The sound that came out of Killian was inhuman, as unnatural as the man that hovered above him. He fought against the chains that held him, willed his bones to _break_ if that’s what it took to get him out of the bindings. The heavy links didn’t budge . If anything he swore they grew tighter, coiling around his middle and his ankles like snakes. He looked up just in time to see a flash of the stranger’s bone white smile, as wide and wild as ever. There was a deafening _pop_ in the air and the stranger was gone, leaving nothing behind but a fine, black mist that smacked of sulfur.

“No…” Killian slammed his hand against the ground, ignoring the biting pain that shot through it. “ **_NO_ **!”

* * *

Regina scarcely recognized the home she’d lived in for three decades. The apple trees she tended were stripped of their leaves, oddly twisted and weighted with rotten fruits. The shutters framing her windows were cracked in some places and broken in others, hanging from hinges that barely seemed to hold them upright. Even the wrought iron that circled her upstairs balcony was deformed, sprouting unwelcoming black thorns.

It didn’t deter her—nothing ever had. Regina was the first up the walkway, and then at the door. She stopped short of touching it with her own hands. She was unfamiliar with the Underworld’s magic, and though she couldn’t feel any dark power surrounding the door, she still didn’t trust it. Regina whispered a quiet spell of disarmament. Magic poured over the door, slipping through its keyhole. A moment later, the door popped open easily. Regina sighed in relief.

“Come on,” she said, motioning for the others.

Everything felt different in this world. Even the stairs creaked abnormally, groaning with every taken step. When they reached the second story, Henry’s bedroom door was already propped open, strangely inviting for a realm where everything seemed treacherous and wrong.

Regina didn't trust it. She drew in a steadying breath, and her fingertips gave birth to fire. Without a single word spoken between them, Robin felt her apprehension. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. He nudged the door completely open with his foot, raising his weapon slowly.

The room was empty of everything but what Henry left there, and even some of those belongings were broken, missing, or otherwise changed. Regina and Robin exchanged quiet glances, in a moment exchanging something that words couldn't. He lowered his bow and she closed her fingers together, extinguishing the fireball she’d summoned.

With no apparent threat, the five of them filtered into the room. Henry squeezed between his mother and her true love. He headed straight for his bookcase and began to comb through the comic books he kept propped there.

Mary Margaret couldn't keep from noticing the swan light on Henry’s bedside table. It was toppled. The swan silhouette gave off a strange, orange glow that mimicked the fiery-hued sky outside. It caused an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

“Do you think we made the right decision,” she asked, “letting Emma go off on her own?”

David offered her a smile he hoped was reassuring. “Would anything we said have changed her mind?”

“No,” Mary Margaret sighed, “I suppose not. She gets that from you, you know.”

She watched as Henry came to the bed with his arms full of brightly colored comic books. They spilled over his bed in a rainbow.

“These are the ones I could find,” he explained, taking one of the issues in his hands. He poured through the pages, black and white panels that told a story that seemed almost too much, even for the truest believer.

“Is this him?” Mary Margaret asked, holding up one of the comic books Henry brought over. A flaming skull stared out from the cover, attached to a body clad in chains and leather. Henry couldn’t keep from smiling.

“Actually uh, he’s the good guy,” he said.

Regina looked impressed.

“This one, then?” It was Robin’s voice that drew the others’ attention. He spread one of the comics across Henry’s bed, smoothing out the pages from its thin spine. The figure glaring out at them made the skeletal face look like a fairytale princess.

“Y-Yeah. That’s him.”

In his true form, Mephistopheles was hideous. Red skin stretched too tautly across his face exaggerated the sharp angles of his features. His ears were long and pointed, pulling back into horn-like protrusions. His teeth were jagged, animalistic—his smile was yet fouler, gleefully dark and inhuman. Even his body was misshapen, large but strangely bowed, an unnatural spine curvature that sent chills traveling down Mary Margaret’s own.

“This can’t be real,” she breathed, “can it?”

“You’re all in stories, too,” Henry said. “And _you’re_ real.”

“I haven't seen anything like this here,” Regina said, tracing the page with a darkly painted fingernail. It was a throne room for the hellish, the ground a mixture of stone and lava. She noted the chains that hung from molten pillars. “If he's holding Hook captive, this might be the place. I just don't know where this place _is_.”

“Could be in the mines,” David said.

“Or the mausoleum,” said Mary Margaret. “You know that vault better than anyone, Regina.”

“Maybe we could just… you know, ask?” Henry suggested. “There are a lot of people here, maybe one of them knows something.”

The adults traded glances. It was painfully simple, too easy and too good to be true. But it was as good of a lead as any of theirs, and any insight into Mephistopheles would be better than what they had to go off of from Rumplestiltskin’s cryptic words.

“You heard my grandson,” David said proudly. Henry smiled. “Let’s go.”

* * *

From where the ferryman docked his boat to Killian and Emma’s house wasn’t as small of distance as Emma thought. Maybe it was the sweltering heat, or the ominous weight of the flame-colored sky that hung above her. Emma’s legs ached, but it didn’t matter. She hoped in her heart that Killian would be there waiting for her, and that possibility—no matter how small, no matter how improbable—kept her moving forward.

She caught a glimpse of yellow and her heart lightened. Her Volkswagen was waiting right where she’d left it, parked in the shadow of the home she barely knew. She picked up her pace, hurrying up the sidewalk and the stairs that became her porch.

Emma reached for the door handle but there was no need. It came open at her slightest touch, beckoning her inside. She stepped through the threshold and took in a deep breath. It was everything she remembered, and at once nothing like it at all. An empty feeling turned her stomach.

She moved through the rooms, a stranger in the place she should have felt most at home. Her bootheels echoed, a hollow sound that played ominously through the hallways. Even though the home was full of furniture, it felt as empty as her heart did.

“Killian?” Emma called out. There was no response. But she wasn’t giving up.

She took to the stairs, shuddering at the sounds they made beneath her feet. She hesitated at their bedroom door. It was the one place in the home she couldn’t bring herself to enter back in Storybrooke, the one room she couldn’t force herself to look at after his death, knowing they would never share it. Her hand shook as she twisted the knob open.

Despite the thick heat, Emma felt cold as she walked into their room. Her heart sank far beneath where it belonged in her chest. The bed was untouched, the sheets stretched stiffly over the mattress. The closet doors were open, empty. Nothing seemed out of place and she _hated_ it, because it meant he hadn’t been here at all. No one had.

She wandered to the window, the one that overlooked the ocean. In this world, the waters were tainted: black like the same lake the ferryman took them across. Emma watched the inky water lap at the shores. “Hook,” she breathed, “where are you?”

Emma watched the water a moment longer, paralyzed by the ebb and flow of the angry, ebon tides. From the corners of her eyes she caught something glistening. She spun to find its source, her hair falling around her in frenzied, blonde waves.

She wasn’t sure how she missed it before. There was a crib in the room, made of deep oak that had to have been crafted by hand. Spindles stretched off its railing, like tiny, wooden turrets rising from a castle. Lacy white bedding lined its insides, tied in place with silky ribbons. The sparkle Emma saw came from a mobile suspended above, tiny glass unicorns that seemed to move by themselves. She recognized it as the one her parents had described as her own, the one she’d seen, just briefly, when she traveled back in time with them. What it was doing in the Underworld, she wasn’t sure—and how did she miss it when she first came into the room?

Emma felt uneasy. She watched the unicorns as they twirled, a glistening promenade that felt somehow sinister. She reached to touch one of them, but just before her fingertip skimmed the glass, she heard something downstairs. Footsteps or a door, Emma didn’t know—but she heard _something_. With a surge in her heart, she jumped away from the window and ran downstairs.

She moved as quickly as her legs could carry her, skipping one step and then another, hoping that every inch gained would be one closer to Killian. When she saw him standing there, she cried out to him. Emma raced to her love, throwing her arms around his neck and holding him close to her.

It was over, it was done. She had him. They could go home.

“Killian,” Emma whispered, hiding her face against his chest. She felt his arms come around her and she cried out in happiness. The way he held her was awkward, as if he couldn’t place where his arms and hands were supposed to go. She reached for his neck, the place where Excalibur first cut him, the fatal injury that put in motion everything up to this moment where he was safe in her arms again.

When she touched his skin there, something crackled between them. A streak of white-hot light tore them apart. Where Emma’s fingers met Killian’s skin seared as if by flame, and a hiss pushed past his lips. Emma gasped, her eyes wild as she searched his for an answer. She found it in the bend of his grin, the yellow that spilled over the blue eyes she so adored. She stumbled away from him, her breath hanging in her throat. Before she could convince words to form, he transformed before her wide eyes. Her Killian was no more, replaced by a ghastly man dressed all in black. The place where she touched him simmered still. It gave off gray wisps, the product of her pure magic against the darkness he harnessed.

“Mephistopheles,” Emma breathed.

He looked amused. “My reputation proceeds me.”

“Where is he?” Emma demanded. “What have you done to him?” She couldn’t keep from noticing the gap he kept between them. He shifted his skull-topped cane in front of his body, a shiny silver barrier to stave off her powers. She wondered, distantly, if she could outpower him, but swallowed the thought with a steadying breath. She wasn’t in this realm to fell Mephistopheles, but to find Killian, to relieve him of the sacrifice Rumplestiltskin stole and bring him _home_.

“I’m moved by your devotion.” He gave a sly, cryptic smile. The same chill Emma felt in her bedroom suddenly ran through her blood. “So moved, in fact, that I’m willing to make you a deal.”

_“When you’re done dealing with him, you’ll be left wishing it were me instead.”_

Rumplestiltskin’s words flashed out at Emma in warning. She swallowed them. “What’s your price?” she asked.

“Oh Emma,” Mephistopheles smirked, obviously pleased by the woman’s interest. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	4. Deal with the Devil

“I’m worried about Emma.”

Mary Margaret’s voice was soft and broken, a splinter of its usual vigor. She felt as distraught as the decaying town around them looked. Though the Underworld betrayed no passage of time—the sky was still the same odd orange, the mock sun hovered in the same place—she knew it had been long enough. She tried convincing herself, quietly, that no news was good news. Maybe Emma was a step closer to finding Killian, or better yet, maybe she’d already found him and they were that much closer to going home.

In her gut, she assumed worse.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” David said, drawing her from her destructive reverie. The protective arm he kept around his wife pulled tighter, drawing her nearer to him. She leaned into his embrace and his words, taking from them what little comfort she could in such a bleak place.

“Of course she’s fine,” Regina said flatly, breaking up the moment with the sharpness of her voice. “We’re already in the Underworld. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Regina,” Robin sounded urgent. “ _Please_ don’t ask that question.”

At that, Henry couldn’t keep from smiling, but it quickly leveled off into something more serious. He had a mission to focus on, and given his record of successful operations, he felt confident that this one would join the ranks of Cobra and Mongoose. With the adults talking, he set his eyes on the townscape and the stony-eyed bodies that moved through it. The orchestration rattled him: their motions were robotic, their faces turned towards whatever course Mephistopheles had set them on. It was a fate that seemed almost scarier than anything between the pages of his comic books.  

Henry swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Dwelling on the eeriness of the Underworld wasn’t going to help bring Killian back and get his family home to Storybrooke. No, he had to _do_ something.

Scanning the streets for anything or anyone that seemed familiar, Henry noticed a middle-aged man clad in villagers’ rags. The man himself was indistinct: short, mousy hair that was thinning in places, a stocky build, and worn hands that dictated a life of hard work on the farm or perhaps at a forge. But Henry recognized his tunic as something he’d seen in the storybook, from a town settled in the Royal Castle’s magnificently structured shadows. He’d made it halfway across the street when he was abruptly pulled back by his mother’s hand.

“Henry!” Regina exclaimed, drawing the otherwise-trained eyes of the Underworld denizens onto them. She lowered her voice and urged, “Not that one.”

“Why?” Henry asked, looking between his mother and the villager. The man—his trancelike state broken by the sudden ruckus—seemed to frighten at the sight of Regina. He quickly picked up his pace. A clarifying moment later and Henry realized, “You killed him, didn’t you?”

Regina sighed. But before she could offer up any further explanation, Henry was already honing in on plan B. “What about her?” he asked. His eyes followed a woman who appeared to be of nobler descent, clad in velvet robes with auburn hair piled high on her head. Henry looked at his mother hopefully, but she shook her head.

“She stole one of my apples,” Regina said matter-of-factly. Beside her, Mary Margaret shot her a scolding look. The once-Evil Queen shrugged her shoulders. “ _What?_ ” she sighed, exasperated. She watched the crowd for a long moment, searching for a face that didn’t prompt a guilty pang in her stomach. Her dark eyes finally landed on a woman in a plain, white dress that fell loosely past her knees. Her hair was long and black, framing her gaunt face in soft ringlets. “Her,” Regina said, “I’ve never seen her before.”

She was the same as the others in the Underworld, simply acting out a routine that never changed and never ended. The woman walked towards Granny’s, her face displaying not a single emotion. She’d nearly met the diner door when Mary Margaret called out to her.

“Excuse me?”

The woman jumped upright, startled by the sudden break in the Underworld’s routine. Staring at the group of strangers, she hesitated. She knew by the sight of them that they were different— _alive_. Color pinked their cheeks and breaths moved in their chests. They scared and thrilled her all at once. “Y-You’re…” she stammered.

“Alive, yes.” Mary Margaret offered a smile she hoped was reassuring. She couldn’t keep from noticing the woman’s eyes. They were a brilliant blue she swore she recognized, striking in their beauty but at once dulled with sadness.

“ _How_?” asked the woman. “I’ve never met a living soul here, and it’s been…” Her voice trailed off sadly as she thought of the years. There were too many of them to count, at least two hundred or more. She stared at the ground for a moment, then looked back at the group of strangers around her. “It’s been a long time.”

“It’s… kind of a long story.” Mary Margaret couldn't keep from staring at the woman. There wasn't just familiarity in her eyes—no, she was _sure_ she recognized her from somewhere. She just couldn’t place it. She continued, “We’re here to help a friend.”

“A friend?”

“We believe the er, ruler of this realm, might be holding him here,” Robin said. “Could you tell us anything about him?”

“Lord Mephistopheles?” Her lips trembled the name. She looked from one side and then to the other, checking her surroundings. If her body still had breath left to draw, she would have held it then. “I don't wish to anger him.” The fear on her face was apparent.

“We just need to know where he is,” David said, “or where he might hold his captives.” He produced a sheet of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and unfolded it carefully. It was from one of the comic books they'd found in Regina’s home, the page depicting rusty chains and molten pillars. He held it out to the woman. She took it warily.

“What is this?” she asked.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Mary Margaret said. “We’re worried this could be where he—Mephistopheles, I mean—is holding our friend.”

“He's my mom’s true love,” Henry added. “Please, if you know anything...”

The woman looked at the young boy and frowned. His messy head of dark hair reminded her of her oldest, as did the earnestness in his voice. She wanted to help them, but she simply had no help to give. She shook her head. “When people die, they just… appear here. If a place like that exists, I don't know it,” she said. “And I've never heard of Lord Mephistopheles keeping anyone captive. We’re already trapped, so there really isn't a need.” She paused and looked at each of their faces, so full of life in a place that knew only death. A question struck her. “Are you planning on leaving here with your friend?”

“Indeed we are,” said Regina. “Why?”

“You should know that only one person has ever left here before,” said the woman.

Regina looked intrigued. She wasn't sure if even Rumpelstiltskin knew how to escape the Underworld on his own. Now they were without him as well as their best chance of returning to Storybrooke. If this woman knew something, Regina was all ears. “And who was that?”

“Prince Blackheart.” His was another name she uttered with caution, worried she might draw his attention back to the realm he fled. She saw no recognition on the faces of the five living strangers. She elaborated, “He is the only son of Lord Mephistopheles.”

“Could he help us?” asked David.

“ _No_.” The woman’s voice was definitive, almost harsh. “Prince Blackheart is as…” Her tongue wanted to say ‘terrible,’ but she settled on something less blasphemous. “...ruthless as his father.”

“Then we’ll just have to find our own way out,” Regina said. “Thank you.”

It wasn't much, but it was something; if nothing else, it was proof that leaving the Underworld was just improbable, not impossible. As the group turned to walk away, the dark-haired woman called to them.  

“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked. “If I meet him, I’ll let him know his friends are trying to find him.”

Mary Margaret smiled sadly. “His name is Killian.”

The woman felt something long dead leap to life inside of her. She nodded her head quickly, watching with wide eyes as the strangers headed for the eerie, black sea.

 _Killian_. How long had it been since she’d heard that name? It rang in her mind, a bell that tolled with a thousand different thoughts at once. It stirred in her feelings she almost remembered, and a lifetime that seemed eons away suddenly came rushing back to her. “Killian,” she mouthed, for just a moment daring to believe that it could truly be him.

And for the first time in two centuries, Elisabeth Jones felt hope.

* * *

 Mephistopheles _hated_ hope.

He could feel it all around him, biting against the mortal skin he cloaked his true self in. It was spreading with every breath the mortals took, every step they made in the desolate realm he’d so carefully crafted. He took a breath not of necessity, but of curiosity. The sensation hit him all at once, drawing a low growl from his throat that went undetected by Emma’s human ears. Hope permeated the once-dead air, burning his nostrils and curling his lips. It was spreading in the Underworld, a wildfire of light that needed to be snuffed out. He clenched a fist around the skull crowning his cane and leered down at Emma.

 _Just a little longer,_ he reminded himself.  

Emma’s senses screamed at her. She’d only just overcome the darkness and now she was here, teetering on the edge again. Black magic radiated off of Mephistopheles’ pale figure, filling Emma with a stinging sensation. His gaze on her was just as suffocating. She almost felt like prey, a mouse trapped beneath the power of his cat-like eyes. _Almost_ because Emma Swan was no one’s prey.

She held her head high, daring to stand against his hungry stare. Her green eyes stared straight into his odd, yellow ones. Her brows knitted together seriously. “Tell me what you want.” Emma sounded calm for the storm building inside of her. Entertaining a deal with this man, this _monster_ , went against the very thing she believed in most. But in the moment, the goodness she promised to give into and the darkness she vowed to turn from didn’t seem so far removed from each other. If there was a better way, she didn’t know it—and if dancing with the darkness was the only way to get Killian back, Emma was willing to take the lead in Mephistopheles’ grim promenade.

Mephistopheles smirked, obviously pleased by her interest. His hungry eyes swept the room, searching for something that wasn’t there.  “I’ll take…” He dragged out the words. His eyes landed on Emma. “... your daughter.”

Emma released the breath she didn't realize she’d been holding. “I don't have a daughter,” she said, incredulous.

“Of course you don't.” There was that cryptic smile again. This time, it divulged more than just Mephistopheles’ cruel nature. As his thin lips pulled back to reveal the bone white grin beneath, Emma glimpsed an extra set of teeth that were decidedly inhuman, long like fangs but scored like knives. She felt her blood run cold.

“Why would you—”

“I have my reasons,” Mephistopheles interrupted. “Think of it as a… down payment.” He chuckled as though indulging in a private joke. The noise was like thunder, deep and rumbling. Emma nearly prefered the gnarled smile.

“You’re asking me to give away our future.”

“Quite the opposite,” said the man. “As long as Killian remains here, you don’t _have_ a future. I’m simply offering it back to you. All you have to do is sign over your daughter. I’ll reunite you with your Captain and provide you and your friends with a portal back to your realm.”

“Just like that?”

Mephistopheles snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“ _Why_?” He was hiding something, Emma was sure. His strange eyes were as empty as the lies she was convinced he was spewing. “Why would you want a child who doesn't even exist yet?”

“Perhaps I'm just more benevolent than you people give me credit for.”

“I doubt that.”

The sound of thunder rolled off his lips again. “You have nothing to lose, Emma.”

 _Except for our future,_ she thought. Those were the dreams she kept locked away from Killian, ones of vows whispered against the backdrop of the sun sinking over the ocean, those of a baby sleeping soundly in their arms. She’d never told him about them—how could she? She’d defeated monsters that were scarier, easier to face than her own feelings were. Hell, the first time she uttered her love to Killian was in the last moment she thought they would ever spend together. How could she have told him that she wanted a future, a family with him? That would have risked scaring him away, of losing the only happy ending she’d ever known, the only one she’d ever wanted.

Now, she thought bitterly, she’d never know.

But Mephistopheles was right. None of it mattered without Killian. She looked up at the dark-coated man with something weary in her eyes, something caught between acquiesce and defeat.

To his delight, she nodded her head.

With as much effort as it took to blink, Mephistopheles procured an ancient scroll from his long, dark coat. He held it out to Emma and it unfurled, filling the air with a sickly mix of dust and brimstone. Ancient runes she couldn’t hope to understand made up its text, but the long, blank line at the document’s end said more than a thousand words ever could have.

With sickness in her stomach, Emma blinked away thoughts of the family she’d never know. She put away images of a dark-haired girl with eyes as blue and deep as the sea. Slowly, she reached out for the parchment. Her fingertips grazed the edge of the paper. It seemed to twist beneath her touch, pricking her finger. Emma hissed in pain as a thin, red ribbon ran the length of her thumb. A single drop leaked onto the contract, sealing away her hopes and dreams in a bloody promise.

“That’ll do just fine,” said Mephistopheles, snapping the contract from Emma’s shaking hand.

“Where is he?” Emma demanded. “Where’s—”

 _Pop_. Mephistopheles was gone before she could finish, leaving a hissing miasma and a nauseous, rotting smell in the place he’d just been standing. Emma whispered a curse beneath her shuddering breaths. Had she been betrayed again? She strained to see through the dark mist that lingered in Mephistopheles’ wake. The rotting smell filled her lungs and she damned the breath she made the mistake of taking. She swatted at the fog and it dispersed at last, leaving Emma to stare at a room as empty as her heart felt.

“No,” she whispered, broken. A paper thin line on her finger reminded her that the deal she made was a real one, but Mephistopheles had seemingly skirted on his half of the bargain. Her chest felt tight. She wanted to lash out, to scream, to cry, to curse _herself_ for being so foolish. How could she have trusted him?

Then, she heard it: the creaking sound of bedsprings shifting under a weight that wasn’t there before. Hope broke across her like the sun’s rays over the ocean at dawn. Emma tore up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, a desperate prayer on her lips.

_“Please, please, please.”_

Her footfalls made a loud clamor, but she could scarcely hear it over her heart’s frenzied beating. Her legs kept tangling together but somehow Emma made it. She made it up the stairs and to the shut bedroom door she didn't remember closing.

She heard him before she opened it, a muffled “Bloody hell” from the other side of the door. Emma’s eyes shone with tears not of sadness, but of hope. Her heart lifted into its rightful place in her chest. She threw open the door and sobbed happily when she saw him.

“ _KILLIAN_!”


	5. Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry there was such a delay between the last chapter and this one! It's a difficult time of year for me but I'm doing my best to be a survivor, just like Killian and Emma. I'm hoping to be back to updating every Sunday (or at least every other Sunday) soon. Thank you all so much for the support, it blows me away. I hope you're enjoying the ride so far; it's just getting started :)

**** The first thing Killian noticed was the ground—or rather, what used to be the ground. Gone from beneath him was the hard surface he pounded his hand against. It was replaced by a mattress, familiar and soft in its embrace. His head spun; his nostrils burned with the foul smell left behind by… well,  _ whatever  _ it was that stole him away from the stranger’s hellish prison. It reeked like death or something more sinister. It surrounded him still, thin wisps of black that radiated off his figure and faded slowly into the air. 

Suddenly there was a rattle, a clamoring of bootheels that made Killian’s every sense spring to life in a place utterly devoid of it. He steeled himself, his eyes trained on the door, adrenalin replacing the blood that no longer pumped through him. 

That was when he heard her speak.

It was more of a scream, really, a verbal scrawl of his name. And then, everything else in Killian Jones’ world went numb as the door swung open and she rushed to him in a flash of red leather and blonde curls. 

“ _ EMMA _ !” 

He fought against the bonds he thought still held him captive, but there was no resistance. Killian lurched forward and Emma met him with her arms around his neck, knocking him back again. They landed on the bed, a tangle of limbs and kisses and words whispered so quickly they made no sense at all. 

Emma grasped his face, drew in his features with her shaking fingertips, proving to herself that he was real and not another one of Mephistopheles’ tricks. She framed his jaw with her hands, rubbing little circles against his cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. One hand fell to his neck, feeling the place where Excalibur split his flesh. When she found smooth skin in the wound’s stead, she cried out in relief. 

“ _ How _ ? How are you here?” Killian reached for her hand, threading his fingers between the spaces of hers and marveling at the natural way they fit together. She spread warmth across his skin that was quite unlike the strangling fever of the Underworld. It radiated off her figure like the light of a thousand suns. He basked in it—in her. He lost himself in the softness of her skin and the green of her eyes, the same emerald pools he swam in as he breathed his last in Storybrooke. 

Then, realization hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. His eyes flashed over Emma’s face. “You’re not…” Killian couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, to comprehend for even a second that his Emma could be dead. He squeezed her hand hopefully and prayed the pulse he felt wasn’t born of his imagination. 

“No.” Emma beamed down at him. “How many times do I have to tell you, Jones?” she teased, her voice poorly imitating his. The ring he gave to her hung between them, a quiet reminder of the future they left behind in Camelot, the one that was theirs again. “I’m a survivor.” 

Relief spread across the pirate’s features, pulling his lips into a grin. “Aye, love. That you are.” 

For a long moment they stayed suspended there, lost in the color of each other’s eyes. Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. They just existed together, and for a second that was enough. Then, the second passed, and they needed more. The longing was unbearable. As quickly as their bodies came together, so did their lips. Emma’s mouth met Killian’s, silencing the whisper of her name on his breath. He tasted of rum and something sweeter and suddenly Emma was numb to the distant reek of brimstone that idled in the air. She melted against him, giving into him, giving  _ all  _ to him.

His arms slid down her back, steadying her against him, a silent promise that they would never part again. Emma’s chest pressed against Killian’s and he could feel the quickening beat of her heart. She burned in him something hotter than any molten prison the darkly dressed stranger could craft. He was sure that the current Emma moved through him would alone be enough to jumpstart his unbeating heart. 

When at last they parted, it was only out of necessity for the breath that Emma still needed to draw. She gripped Killian still, wadded the collar of his jacket in her hands as she gasped into his mouth. She kept him anchored to her, silently afraid that if she let go then something would appear and steal him away again. 

He peppered little kisses across her cheeks, nose, and forehead, causing her to laugh. He grinned at the sound. “Emma,” he sighed, reveling in the roll of her name from his lips. His smile evened somewhat as he sat up, pulling Emma with him. His arms settled around the bow of her hips. She searched his expression worriedly and he frowned. “You never should have come for me, love. There’s a… a monster here, or perhaps he’s a demon—” 

He didn’t need to finish for Emma to know who he was talking about. “Mephistopheles,” she interrupted. The name dripped with malevolence and power. Emma shook off the chill that creeped down her spine. 

_ So the creature made good on his threat _ . Killian tensed. “Did he hurt you?” 

Emma shook her head. “He’s really not that scary, once you get past the brimstone and the… you know,  _ poofing _ .” She wiggled her hands for effect, hoping to ease the tension in her love’s face, hoping he didn’t see the paper thin cut that slashed her thumb. He didn’t, but his frown deepened still. 

“Then I’m afraid I’ve witnessed a side of him that I hope you never do,” Killian said. “He’s dangerous, Emma.”

She smiled. “I laugh in the face of danger.” 

“Aye. And you never listen, either.”

“Would you want me any other way?” 

“You know I wouldn’t change a bloody thing about you, Swan,” Killian said. “Indeed, it’s one of the things I love most about you. Third or fourth most, perhaps.” 

Emma grinned. “You can tell me the others when we’re home.” She took his hand in one of others and his hook in the other, beckoning him towards her, up and off of the bed. 

“Of course, love,” Killian said as he stood with her. “But how do you plan on—”

She hushed him with a kiss. “I always have a plan,” Emma said, smiling against his mouth.

“I know you do.” Killian’s lips dragged across Emma’s as he spoke. He stole another kiss from her, deeper and slower than the first. Her arms came around his neck, her fingers twining in the ends of his dark hair. With a ragged gasp, Killian’s hand went around the small of Emma’s back, pulling her tightly against him. She pushed up on her toes, wanting to be closer. Their mouths were hot and desperate on each other, familiar and impassioned, like the day they lost themselves in Camelot’s field of middlemist flowers. 

“I love you,” Emma whispered as their mouths broke apart. She lightly tugged at his hair as she held him close to her. 

“I love you too,” Killian said, smiling to himself as their foreheads brushed together, bobbing with their gasping breaths. “You’re going to make a pirate believe that he just might mean something to you, Swan, if you keep saying that first.” 

Emma laughed into his breath. She smoothed her hands across the sides of his neck and cupped his face. “I came to hell for you, didn’t I?”

“You know I never would have asked you to—” 

Gently, her lips melded to his, and the words Killian wanted to say were lost in the taste of her kiss. “I know,” she told him with a nuzzle. 

He held her strongly in the towers of his arms, resting his cheek in her soft hair. His head was spinning still, no longer with Mephistopheles’ fetid magic but with excitement. Killian had his happy ending again, tucked safely against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Emma’s head. “That was one of the things, by the way.” 

“Huh?” Emma took a step back, confused by his words and by the roguish smirk that took up his features. Then, she remembered his list. “The plan?” she asked, one of her eyebrows arching. “Or the kiss?” 

Killian grinned. “Both.” 

* * *

They were halfway down the stairs when the front door rattled. Killian raised a guarded arm across Emma, who started at the sound. She reasoned that Mephistopheles had about as much of a use for doors as anyone who barged into Mr. Gold’s shop ever did, but she knew nothing else of this strange realm or the strangers who inhabited it. She couldn’t risk indolence. Emma lifted her hands and twin beams of light pooled between them, glistening off the tips of her fingers. Killian mumbled something behind her—something about dashing his attempts at protecting her  _ again _ —but her eyes were trained on the door as she watched the knob twist. It opened wide and she held her breath, waiting for a fight that didn’t come.

“Mom! Dad!” Emma raced down what remained of the staircase, embracing her parents as they filtered inside with Henry, Regina, and Robin on their heels.

Killian stared at them. He wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him—or maybe it was Mephistopheles. “You’re here, too?” he asked. He loped down the rest of the stairs, his boots clanging strangely in a world where the most mundane of sounds had an eerie quality about them.

“Don’t sound so excited,” Regina said flatly.

“Of course we’re here,” Mary Margaret said. “You’re our family.”

_ Family?  _ Killian blinked. Before he could fully process the word, she embraced him like a son. He returned the hug, a wary wrap of his arms around her slim shoulders. Her hold on him was warm and motherly. It stirred in him a distant feeling, something he almost remembered—yet it eluded him, dancing just out of reach of his mind’s eye like a fading candle flame. He wanted to hold onto it a moment longer, to coax the ember of a memory into an inferno, but it flickered out, leaving Killian feeling dazed. “Thank you,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as vulnerable as he felt. Emma sensed it; her fingers closed on his wrist and she squeezed it lightly. 

She knew exactly what was going through his mind because she’d lived it, too. Emma knew how loaded a word like “family” could seem when a person had spent their life—for Killian, multiple ones—without one. She leaned onto the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. 

“It took a while,” David admitted as he clapped him on the shoulder, “but you kind of grew on us.” 

“Ah, well, I tend to have that effect on people,” Killian said, finding his resolve in Emma’s touch. “In fact, I— _ oof _ .” 

Henry threw his arms around Killian’s middle and he stumbled back, laughing lightly to himself. Clearly, knocking people off balance with hugs was a familial trait. He returned the embrace strongly. “I missed you too, lad.” 

Regina spoke up. “I hate to break up all of these happy moments—” 

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ve been down here a bit too long, your majesty, because I recall that being one of your favorite pastimes.” 

“If you’d prefer, we could just leave you down here,” Regina quipped. 

“Enough, you two,” Emma sighed. She looked to Regina and asked, “How do we do this?” 

Killian looked between them. “Do what?” 

“Regina is going to split my heart. You can’t leave here without one, and since yours isn’t working anymore…” Emma smiled at him reassuringly. “It worked for my parents, Killian. It will work for us, too.” 

“Emma, I—” 

“It’ll work,” she told him. “Trust me.”

“Aye, love,” Killian squeezed her hand. “Always.” 

She kissed him, light and sweet, her hand pressed against the place where her heart would soon be. Emma glanced at Regina and nodded, a moment of wordless understanding. She held her breath as Regina’s hand punctured her chest, prying her heart from her body.

Emma gasped, fumbling for Killian’s hand. He held hers tightly as he stared at her heart, pulsing vibrantly in Regina’s palm. Her dark nails braced either side of it, and Killian looked away as she easily tore it in two. Regina offered each of them one of the ruby red halves. 

Killian let go of Emma’s hand; it was one of the few times his hook truly bothered him. 

Emma smiled and held it instead. “I love you, Killian Jones.”

“And I you, Emma Swan.” 

At once they plunged the broken pieces into each other’s chests. Killian staggered back, gasping for breath as air filled his lungs once more. Emma stumbled into him, pressing her hand to his chest. She cried when she felt her heart beating inside of him, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as life moved through him again. “You’re alive,” she whispered. She hid her face against him, happily listening to the sound of their hearts beating in tune. 

“I love you,” Killian whispered, leaving kisses in her hair, down her face, and finally her mouth. Emma returned his words with her lips, crying and laughing at once as she trailed tiny kisses all over his face. 

As they held each other, as she felt Killian’s breath tickling her lips with life, the weight of her deal suddenly lifted from Emma’s conscience. Their reunion was worth the sacrifice she made. Thoughts of the contract and her blood spilling over it left her mind as whispers of love left her lips. She had everything she wanted, everything she needed. He was enough. He was everything.

Regina clapped her hands together, rousing the couple from their embrace. “I now pronounce you living,” she said sarcastically. “Now, let’s get the hell out of hell.”


	6. Come Undone

**** “And just how are we going to do that, exactly?” Robin asked what the others didn’t want to. “Regina, you and I both know we can’t just lea—” 

“Actually, you can.”

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but the throaty timbre that filled the room wasn’t hers. She immediately recognized the familiar drawl, the sound of words lengthening on a wicked tongue. The hiss lingered on even after his mouth stopped moving. A chill worked down her spine and she grabbed for Killian’s hand, clutching it as he uttered a breathy curse. 

Mephistopheles lingered in the doorway, a smile pinned to his thin lips, cane hanging from his hand. He strode across the room with thunderous footfalls, his shadow casting a gnarled figure across the floor. The shape that moved along with him was straight out of the pages of Henry’s comic books, hunched and grotesque. In his human guise, the long tails of his coat waved behind him like skinny black flags. They never quite reached the ground even though they seemed to extend past his gangly legs. His cane clacked loudly as he approached the group of people gathered near the base of the stairs. His catlike eyes landed on them one by one, scrutinizing their faces. They hesitated a moment long on Henry, causing Emma and Regina to lurch. 

“Get behind me, kid,” said Emma, ushering her son behind her figure and Killian’s. Mephistopheles looked amused. 

“Don’t you trust me, Emma?” he asked. The sound of the savior’s name burned his lips; Mephistopheles gnashed his teeth. “I thought we were really getting to know each other.”

“Who the hell are you?” Regina’s voice was poisonous, as dark and deadly as the pale-faced man who shared her penchant for black. She flexed her fingers and a fireball formed in the center of her palm. It hissed and crackled, burning with the same intensity as her dark eyes. 

Mephistopheles chuckled. He closed his hand and the flame dancing beneath her fingertips died in a breath. “I am Mephistopheles,” he said, bowing as much as his cane would allow, “ruler of the Underworld.” 

Regina wasn’t impressed. 

Killian was murderous. He jerked forward, a swear on his breath and a swing in his arm. Emma threw her arm out in front of him. 

“It’s all right,” she said. “He—” 

“All right?” Killian hissed, interrupting her. “It’s not bloody all right, Swan. Do you have any idea what this monster—” 

Mephistopheles raised his palms, a gesture of false defense. His thin hands framed the creepy smile on his face. “There’s no need for name-calling, Captain,” he said dryly. “I’m only here to help.” 

“Help?” Killian spat. “There’s not a bloody thing you can help us with.” 

“Oh really?” Mephistopheles’ brows hitched up daringly. He waved his hands and conjured a portal in the heart of the room. Slender gold strings bound its edges, enclosing it in an elegant circle. In its center, a violet vortex churned angrily. It pulsed with dark magic, twisting and spinning, a hurricane’s eye contained in a gateway no larger than the average door. The darkly dressed man stepped back, a smirk carved onto his hollow face. “What would you call this, then?” 

“A bloody trick, that’s what.”

“For once, I agree with the pirate,” chimed Regina. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the lingering heat from where Mephistopheles squelched her flame. “Do you really think we’re going to trust you,  _ ruler of the Underworld _ ?”  

“I don’t  _ think  _ that at all, your majesty. I  _ know  _ you’re going to,” said Mephistopheles. His yellow eyes glinted oddly. “Isn’t that right, Emma?”

Emma shrank as she felt all eyes fly upon her. She glanced between her parents, her son, her friends, her love, and finally the dark lord who harbored her secret. She watched as his bony hand brushed across the place in his coat where he’d stowed their contract away, a half-second movement that went undetected by her loved ones. She swallowed the lump that gathered in her throat. “Mephistopheles agreed to let us leave the Underworld. We can go home, back to Storybrooke.” 

“Emma,” Killian started, “whatever lies he’s told you—” 

“I need you to trust me again, Killian.” Their eyes locked, and the warring reaches of green and blue found their usual peace in the presence of the other. Emma’s gaze on Killian’s was pleading. Her slim fingers closed firmly on his wrist. Killian opened his mouth and snapped it shut again, wanting to argue her but at once lacking the strength to. At her touch, he relented, the beast in him soothed by the warmth of her skin. He nodded briskly, trusting her completely. She smiled thankfully.

Not letting go of Killian’s hand, Emma turned to address the rest of her loved ones. “I know it sounds crazy but—” 

Regina scoffed. “Sorry, Miss Swan, but batting your pretty eyelashes only works on your boyfriend. If you really expect me to believe that I can trust the king of the dead with our lives—” 

“I trusted the Evil Queen, didn’t I?” Emma asked. Regina fell uncharacteristically silent.

“We don’t exactly have a lot of options here,” said David. He thought of the woman they’d met in the streets of this false Storybrooke, the one with the cascade of dark hair and the solemn words of warning about the Underworld’s only escapee. Blackheart’s name briefly filtered through his mind and David suddenly became aware of Mephistopheles’ yellow eyes drilling into him with a malicious widening. He swallowed the thought.

“What about Gold? I know he’s done awful, unforgivable things,” Mary Margaret sighed, “but we can’t just leave him in the Underworld.” The scoffing sound Regina made suggested otherwise. 

Killian balked. “The bloody crocodile is here?” 

“He was,” David said. “But it’s obvious he’s had his own agenda from the start. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“I never do,” remarked Regina. 

“Fear not,” Mephistopheles’ voice rang out over the rest, dark and deadly. “Rumplestiltskin has already made the journey from this realm back into your own.”

“Of course he has,” Regina said sarcastically. Did she really ever believe that he would help them get back home? She pursed her lips and dragged a hand through the length of her hair. She didn’t relish the idea of the imp having his run of the town— _ her  _ town. “Now we really don’t have any other options.”

“Only this one.” Mephistopheles gestured towards the portal. 

The plum-colored spiral frothed hungrily, causing a low hum to emanate from its center. Regina looked it over. Her mouth was twisted in a downward sneer but her heart knew the truth she was too proud to admit out loud: Charming was right. If there was another option besides the one gurgling before them, she didn’t know it. She looked first to Henry, who nodded at her from behind the gentle slope of Emma’s shoulder. Next she found Robin, who matched her eyes and held them steadfast. Emma’s eyes couldn’t sway her, but Robin’s certainly could. He closed a gentle hand around the small of her back and reassured her with a kiss to each temple. Regina leaned into him for a long moment before voicing her acquiesce with a gentle nod of her head. 

Mephistopheles’ pale face flooded with glee as mumbles of acceptance came from the throng of mortals. His hand fell from the place where hid the parchment in his coat. The gesture was not missed by Emma, who swallowed audibly and cast her eyes to the ground. 

“Are you all right, love?” Killian asked.

“Just ready to leave this place,” Emma murmured.

There was hesitation in his eyes and his gait. For as much as Killian trusted Emma, he also knew when she was hiding something. As the others approached the portal, he paused to cup her face with his right hand. She turned her cheek into it. “You know if there’s anything—” 

“I know,” Emma said. She faltered for a moment before adding, “When we’re home.” 

_ So there was something.  _ Killian nodded and kissed her forehead, then pulled Emma full into his arms, hook on her back and hand in her hair. He glossed kisses across the top of her head, soft and reassuring as he held her tightly to his chest. Emma sank easily into his comfort, snaking her arms snugly around his middle. She glanced sideways at her family.

David and Mary Margaret moved through the portal first, trustful and brave as they always were. Emma’s grip around Killian’s back tightened as she watched the purple void swallow her parents in a blinding light flash. A pulse moved in their wake, shaking the floor, the foundation, and very well all of the Underworld as life departed safely from its clutches. 

Regina, Robin, and Henry were next. Before they walked through the whirling portal, Henry broke free from their hands and rushed to Emma and Killian. Emma let go of the death grip she had on Killian’s jacket and embraced her son tightly. 

“Operation Phoenix was a success,” Henry told her, beaming. It was a new record for sure—he’d never successfully completed a mission within the very hour he’d named it. 

“It sure was, kid,” Emma said. She smiled as he let go of her and hugged Killian, who laughed and ruffled his dark hair. For a moment, the Underworld seemed a little brighter. She bent and pressed a kiss to the top of his forehead. “We’re right behind you, Henry.”

She watched carefully as he rejoined Regina and Robin. Each of them took one of his hands in their own and then they were gone, devoured by the spinning purple storm that carried them from one world into the next. Another pulse broke across the land, signifying their safe return to Storybrooke. 

Killian stepped forward when it settled, keeping one arm slung across Emma’s shoulders. He sank his hand into the yawning purple void, testing it. He could feel the living world on the other side, as real as the heart that drummed faster and faster in his chest. It was light and warm, and it tickled his forearm pleasantly. He grinned at Emma and she smiled back at him. They held tight to one another as they stepped into the portal…

...and clung to each other as it blasted them right back. 

The noise it made was deafening. Violently, the purple-hued gyre reacted at their advance. It lashed at them with draining magic, but Killian turned in time to deflect its brunt from striking Emma. It slammed into him with momentous force, and he grimaced as his shoulder connected with the floor. 

“KILLIAN!” Emma yelped. She fell with him, but his arms braced her from the worst of it. Her hands flew all over him as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine, love, I—” 

_ Clap _ .  _ Clap _ .  _ Clap _ . 

Mephistopheles’ hands smacked together like thunder. His thin lips twisted into a rictus sneer, frightening on his sunken face as he sauntered closer to Emma and Killian. He leered at the couple, hovering over them with fiendish delight in his strange eyes. He could already feel the sickly sweet lure of hope beginning to fade from the air, a blossoming spring flower crippled by the bite of winter. It thrilled him. But his plan falling into place thrilled him even more. 

“What the hell was that?” Emma turned on him first. She helped Killian to his feet and then rounded on Mephistopheles. The air crackled unsteadily with her magic. “You said we could leave!” 

Mephistopheles tipped his cane towards Killian. The skull gleamed in a sinister way beneath the white strobes Emma’s powers gave off. “ _ He _ can.” 

“We had a deal!” Emma shook. 

“A what?” Killian breathed. 

Emma didn’t answer him.

“Oh Emma,” Mephistopheles chuckled. The sound turned her blood into ice, hard and cold in her veins. “Did you really believe I would barter for something that didn’t already exist?” 

Emma paled. Her breath came in searing gasps as the world that she knew fell far away. “N-No,” she whispered. “ _ NO! _ ” 

“Swan?” Killian sounded panicked. “What the bloody hell is he talking about? Swan?  _ Emma _ !”

“A deal, a deal, I-I made a deal,” Emma was frantic. “I-I didn’t know, Killian, I didn’t know—”

“ _ What _ ? What didn’t you know?”

“Congratulations, you two,” said Mephistopheles dryly. His lips pulled back into a toothy smile, jagged and unnatural. Emma lunged at him with all of her magic’s strength, sending helixes of light crashing through the air. The man in black vanished between the streaks as they splintered the room like lightning. A familiar, sulfuric stench began to rise, billowing into the room in nauseous black puffs. His body was gone, but the sophisticated drawl of his voice reverberated off the walls, in Emma’s head as she sank to the ground in tears.

“ _ It's a girl _ .”


	7. Sins of the Mother

Something strange was happening in Storybrooke.

The air shuddered and ripped like the world itself was being torn apart. In the dewy, orange light of morning, a wobbling shape appeared. It stretched a void across the middle of town, carving a yawning hollow between the street lamps marking either side of Main Street. A purple storm started swirling in its center, a slow waltz building into a frenzied flamenco, sending magical sparks flying into the air. The gyre doubled, then tripled in size, until it was large enough to swallow someone up in its core—or spit them right out.

Five figures dumped onto the ground with varying sounds of discomfort and rudeness of language. Taking in the empty streets and the dim tangerine sky, Regina reckoned it was morning. That was fine enough—any later and they might have risked losing their lives not to Mephistopheles, but to Ruby's candy apple Camaro as she zoomed around town like a wild… well, _animal_.

With a half-second motion that seeped elegance despite its haste, the once-evil queen was the first on her feet. Her needle heels clacked noisily as she rushed at once to Henry, then to Robin. She clasped each of them briefly in her arms, then turned and surveyed the world the portal so unceremoniously thrust them back into.

The peachy sky heralded dawn, and did little to resemble the unnatural landscape of the Underworld. What life moved through the streets was actually _alive_ if not a little sleepy, faces flushed with color, not drained of it, and voices full of emotion instead of nothing at all. Sighing lightly to herself, Regina brushed the street dust from her pencil skirt.

"Let's opt for first class next time, shall we?" she cracked.

"Yeah, we'll tell the lord of the Underworld to get right on that." David chuckled at his own joke. He glanced to where he expected Killian to be, waiting for him to chime in. When he realized he wasn't there—and Emma wasn't, either—his stomach dropped so sharply he was sure it ended right back in Mephistopheles' dark realm. He turned on his heel, thrashing his head in every direction. "Where's—"

Before he could finish, the portal made a gushing sound as it began to fold in on itself. Its twisting motion slowed and sputtered, a hurricane's eye fluttering to a close. David lunged for it as it began to fade, but it sealed just out of his reach, leaving his fingers grasping nothing and his shoulder to connect with the ground.

There was a crackle of purple magic, concentrated lightning that sizzled and popped as Regina tried to wrench open the place in the air where the portal just had been. She angrily tore at the sky even as Robin lightly touched her arm, beckoning her to turn from the anger boiling up inside. Her hands fell to her sides and a frustrated growl escaped her.

"No— _NO_!" Mary Margaret shrieked. Her voice was at once soft and sharp, a mother's worry marked by a warrior's resolve. She cried out for her child, for her _children_ , because Killian was as much a part of her family as were her daughter and son. Her screams were matched with silence. There was nothing else in the air but the faint _hiss_ of magic from where Regina tried to pry the portal open again. She volleyed to her husband, her dainty fingers curling around his arms as she heaved him to his feet. She stared up at him with shimmering eyes.

"D-David," she sputtered. "W-We just got her back… we just got them back…"

"And we will again," said David firmly. The words felt tired on his tongue, an overplayed song he couldn't escape the sound of. He drew Mary Margaret into his arms, the only stronghold he could offer her. "That's what we do. We find each other."

"Just this once, don't you think we shouldn't have to?" Mary Margaret's voice cracked. She was as worn as he was, maybe more so, tired of being ripped from her family over and over again. She couldn't number their trials anymore—the curses and spells, the journeys between realms both foreign and familiar. It was so much that even her strong heart was beginning to break. Was having her family whole, happy, and safe so much to ask for? She squeezed shut her eyes and breathed in deeply, drawing up the courage she felt fading like the color of dawn from the sky.

"We _will_ get them back." It wasn't Regina's voice that startled Mary Margaret, but the resoluteness or it. Her dark eyes were a shade deeper than normal, weighted by the empty gazes of the Underworld's lost souls and her many sins yet atoned. Her fingers, perfectly manicured and painted her favorite, bloody red, looked more like claws as she drew them into fists.

Robin softly squeezed her wrist. At his touch, Regina's deathly grip went lax.

"Could they perhaps have ended up somewhere else?" he asked.

Regina shook her head.

"Portals aren't as tricky as they seem. They have a beginning and an end," she said. "I don't think they ever made it through."

"But they were _right there_ ," Mary Margaret whispered. She could see them perfectly in her mind's eye, pressing into each other, clinging to the love Emma went through hell to save. What could have gone so desperately wrong in such a short amount of time?

A thin face flashed to mind, pale and sneering. Mary Margaret suppressed a gasp.

"You don't think Mephistopheles—"

"It's possible," said Regina bluntly. "Or maybe it was someone else."

"Mom?" Henry asked quietly. His voice was hoarse, strangled by the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Do you know something?"

"No Henry." Regina stared down the stores that made up the heart of Storybrooke. The colorful signs and awnings made for rainbows beneath the first light of morning. It was too early for most of them to be open—or so it should have been. Her eyes narrowed tightly as a glass front door swung open, casting a familiar chime into the morning lull. Sunlight bounced off the squares of glass as it shut noisily behind a suited figure with a distinct hobble. "But I think I know someone who does."

And with fire in her footing and a curse on her lips, she stormed towards Mr. Gold's pawn shop.

* * *

Killian fell to his knees, meeting the floor harshly. He wrested Emma's hands from where she drove them against her eyes. Mephistopheles' words bounced around his skull, a parting shot he barely believed, that he must have misunderstood. But Emma's reaction—the tears that paved her cheeks—told a different story. Killian searched her face for anything that made sense at all. Words hung on his tongue, formless.

"Swan?" His voice made a rasping noise. "What the bloody hell was he on about?"

Emma couldn't speak. She stared blearily at her love. A gasp came out of her but it had no shape and no sense, much like the situation she suddenly found herself in. She caved into his embrace, tangling her arms and her legs about his own, hiding her face against the breadth of his shoulder. She was innately aware of a weight in her stomach, not of her child—their child—but of the deal that was destined to wrench her from them, the deal she made so willingly. Her fingertips dug into Killian's back as she lost herself, a sobbing mess against the red and black threads of his vest.

Killian held her to him, his loving words snuffed out by the crown of her head. He rested his chin in her curls, absently working wisps of blonde between two of his fingers. He couldn't number the thoughts that moved through his mind, as jeering as Mephistopheles' gaping grin.

"Emma," he breathed. Her name was a plea on his lips, a child's prayer, painful and deep. "Talk to me, love. Please."

His hand found her face and he used it to lure her from the safety of his shoulder. His fingers cupped her chin and his thumb swept tenderly across her trembling lower lip. She raised her eyes to his and the pain inside startled him. This wasn't his Emma. The sight of her broke him in a way that made Excalibur's wound look like a papercut.

"You know you can tell me anything," said Killian.

"Not this time," Emma breathed. How could she have failed so many people so completely? Her love, her children, her friends—everyone. Her mind was as blurred as her vision, mottled by tears that refused to stop falling.

"Yes, this time," Killian whispered, his lips near her ear. "And the next time. And every bloody time after that. Look around you. Look where we are. Look what you did to rescue me even after I beseeched you not to. No matter what you've done, Emma Swan, you know I'll always—"

"We're going to lose our baby." Emma's voice cracked with what remained of her heart. She stared up at Killian, watching his face change, his eyebrows seize and wrinkle. His eyes doubled in size and hers dropped to the ground ashamedly.

"W-What?" he stammered. "Emma, what? Our what?"

"Your daughter."

Mephistopheles smiled at the couple from the base of the stairs, hovering over them with the malice of a threatening storm. Smoke floated from beneath his bootheels, thick as thunderheads and black as night. In one hand, his bony fingers grasped the gaping sockets of his skull-tipped cane. He grasped the contracted in the other, its worn-looking paper unfurled to the ground. He chuckled darkly as Killian and Emma vaulted to their feet.

"Then again," he sneered, "I guess you could say she's mine now."

There was a devilish delight in his strange, yellow eyes. They followed Killian as he scoured the document and the blood splattered across its end with chilling finality. The language was archaic, but he knew the point it got across.

"You tricked me." Emma's voice was low, deadly. She could feel the darkness she folded to in Camelot bubbling up in her. A lover's heartache was one thing—a mother's rage was another. The foundation of their mock home shook violently as power coursed through her. The ceiling fixtures swayed violently; the lights flickered once, twice, then went out, bathing the room in red as the Underworld's unnatural glow filtered through the windows. Emma's powers raged outwards, forming white tendrils of energy that danced chaotically in the air.

Mephistopheles looked amused. The contract rolled up on its own, filling the room with a bone breaking _snap_. He placed it inside his coat.

"I did no such thing. You agreed to our terms."

"I didn't know I was pregnant."

Mephistopheles smirked.

"It isn't my place to keep record of your love life."

"Enough, demon," Killian spat. He held his love—his family—against him, not daring to allow Emma or their unborn child any closer to the beast. His hand held her at the small of her back, pressing into her. "We want a new deal."

Mephistopheles' eyebrows drew up high on his gaunt face, creating a twisted countenance. His tongue made a clicking sound as he glanced around the room, as if any of the various baubles or dust-layered pieces of furniture could interest him. With the agility of a snake, his eyes locked on the couple.

"No," he said through pursed lips, smiling thinly.

Emma thrashed against Killian's embrace, wanting to lash out at the dark entity with all of her strength, both magical and physical. He held her steadfast.

"Easy, love," he mumbled.

"Yes, Emma, take it easy," sneered Mephistopheles. His grin was large and carnivorous. "Surely such stress isn't good for the little one."

"What the hell do you want with her?" Emma snarled.

Mephistopheles looked smug. He stepped towards them, his long cloak beating behind him like the inky wings of a raven. A hissing sound parted Killian's lips as he pushed Emma behind him.

"All you need to know—all either of you need to know—is that you will remain here until the child is born."

"No," Killian breathed. "You're never going to take her away from us, you bloody—"

_Pop._ Mephistopheles was gone again, leaving a deep fog and a familiar, putrid fetor in the air. Emma pressed into Killian, broken. He clutched her desperately.

"I didn't know," Emma whispered. "If I would have known…"

"So it's true."

Emma nodded. Their shared hearts pulsed in tandem as she told him everything.

"I thought we could just be careful. I didn't even know if you wanted children. I just wanted… I _needed_ you back. I couldn't lose you."

"And you didn't lose me," he said. "We won't lose her, either, love, I promise."

_Her_. The word sounded foreign on his lips. Killian Jones suddenly found himself felled not by man or by monster, but by the tiny life inside Emma's belly. He marveled at the thought, his mouth hanging half-open as his fingertips grazed the flat plane of her stomach. It was for a second and it was for an hour, one singular moment in time where three centuries of brokenness were smoothed over by a single touch. He felt himself began to tremble as his hand roamed her skin. It was a perfect impossibility, that he could be a father. With his hook, he brushed the place where Emma's hair clung to her tearstained face.

"We're having a baby, Swan."

It sounded so poetic on his lips that for a moment, Emma believed that it was true, that their child was safe and so were they. She stared up at the man she loved, at the fierceness of his eyes, at the ghost of a smile that—even in a time like this one—tugged at the corners of his lips and threatened to draw out a similar one on her own. A familiar fire kindled inside of her. The hope Mephistopheles snuffed out sparked back to life, a kernel-sized cinder that crackled and burned from within. He believed in her, in their child, in their family. For the moment, that was all she needed. Maybe it always would be.

Emma held herself to Killian for a long second, clutching at his jacket collar and at the messy ends of his hair, grown out since their days in Camelot. His arms around her felt like the turrets of the childhood castle she never knew, strong and tall, forcing out the blackness and allowing only light to trickle in. The hand that played in his hair slid down his neck, shoulder, and arm, finding the place where his hand rested on her belly. She threaded her fingers between the spaces of his and he squeezed them softly.

"Do you remember when I told you I'd never stop fighting for us?" Killian asked. "I'll never stop fighting for her, either."

Emma leaned her forehead into Killian's, letting their bodies mold together the way she knew they were made to. She stared down at their fingers, tangled together across her stomach, and then back up at him, into the blue eyes as deep as her love for him. Her lips moved slowly across his.

"Neither will I," she whispered to his breath.

"There's the Swan I love," Killian grinned. He claimed her lips tenderly, forming a promise that needed no words—but he provided them anyway.

"You won't lose either of us, love. I'll do whatever it takes to keep the two of you safe, I swear it," he vowed. "I'm not leaving here without you both."


	8. Goldwork

Mr. Gold didn't turn over his shop's open sign as he let the door fall shut behind him. It wasn't as if his usual customers gave it much credence, always barging in regardless of hour or which side of the sign was hanging on the door. Normally it bothered him, wore on what he was sure was the very last nerve in his body.

But this was no ordinary day. In fact, Mr. Gold was in a delightful mood on this particular morning, basking in the satisfaction of a happy ending at last secured. He felt strangely light, almost _peaceful_ , as he waded through his antiquities. After centuries of loss, he'd finally won, and that victorious thrill tasted sweet on his lips. He was sated, dare he admit _happy_ , and looking ahead to a future that suddenly didn't seem so bleak. It was nearly enough to make him understand how the Charming clan was always so annoyingly optimistic.

He pressed his fingers against the long cases holding his shop's smallest, frailest treasures in glass as clear as his questionable conscience. He dragged them along the tops as he strode inside, wearing his finest suit and a knowing smile.

Of course he knew he was being followed. He would have known that even if he didn't have the power of every Dark One beating inside of him. Regina knew no subtlety. She did nothing to cloak her presence: she loomed like a raging tempest, saturating the air not with rain, but her personal brand of dark magic. Settling behind the counter, Mr. Gold drummed his fingers patiently, mouthing numbers that timed well with the angry stomp of Regina's lofty heels.

_Five… four… three… two…_

The bell above his door chimed in an angry way as Regina threw it open with a flourish of power. She was the first through the door, Mary Margaret on her heels, then David, Robin, and Henry filtered in behind them. Mr. Gold outstretched his arms in mock welcome.

"How charming of you to drop by for a visit," he said with a smile that seemed almost genuine. "Tell me, what can I do for you this fine morning?"

Regina slammed her palms harshly against the counter, causing the old plates and knick-knacks underneath to rattle noisily. Her old mentor looked at her with hitched eyebrows, not quite threatened nor impressed with her show of anger. It was as typical of her as the tart smell of apple on her breath as she seethed at him.

"You can start by telling us what the hell you've done."

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're talking about, your majesty," said Mr. Gold. He strummed his fingers along the tabletop, looking as disinterested as he sounded.

David shouldered his way next to Regina, his grip hard on the wooden edge of the counter.

"Why are Emma and Hook still in the Underworld?" he asked. "And how the hell did you get out before the rest of us?"

Mr. Gold smirked.

"It isn't my place to meddle in family affairs, your highness," he said. "As for your other question, suffice to say old Mephistopheles and I have a long and… well, rather complicated history."

Regina hardly looked surprised.

"I'm guessing it's over more than your shared penchant for suits and canes," she scoffed.

"Surely you've come to do something more than insult my fashion sense, Regina." He darkly chuckled and his long hair shook with the sound.

"We want answers, Gold," David said.

"And why exactly do you think I have them?"

"Aren't you the cause of everything that goes wrong in this town?" mused Regina.

"Actually, dearie, I think you have a lot to do with that. Now, if you've nothing better to do than waste my time, I'd prefer you do it during business hours."

Mr. Gold didn't understand why Regina was so agitated, so fixated on dragging out the conversation for what looked to be little more than pure cattiness. He glanced over the four of them with suspecting eyes, from Regina and the prince in front of him to Robin and Henry directly behind.

A half-second too late, he realized that the _four_ of them should have been the _five_ of them.

He didn't see Mary Margaret duck behind the counter and slip a bobby pin from her dark hair. He didn't see her cram the little metal clip into the lock of his safe and, with all the dexterity of the thief she once was, wiggle it until she heard a familiar click.

He certainly never saw her take the dagger into her hands, seizing with it the happy ending Mr. Gold thought was within reach.

"I command thee, Dark One," she demanded from behind him, freezing him in place with little more than the drawl of her usually bright voice. This wasn't Mary Margaret. It was the warrior Snow White, green eyes afire, jaw set tight. The magical force pushing through the ancient blade caused her arm to wobble. She held it horizontally by its hilt and watched Mr. Gold's eyes change in the shining silver reflection.

"How did you—"

"Emma told me," Mary Margaret breathed. "She told me you let Killian die for nothing so you could get back all of this power."

She could feel it as she spoke, searing her skin with something foul. It was the most rawly powerful object she'd ever held. The dark magic radiating off of it underscored just how _strong_ her daughter was to have resisted its power. As pride swelled to meet the anxiousness in her gut, she resolved to do whatever was necessary to get Emma back from the Underworld.

"You don't know what you're doing, dearie," said Mr. Gold, straightening unnaturally beneath the dagger's dark command.

"Oh no. I know _exactly_ what I'm doing," Mary Margaret said. She closed off the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps, each footfall stressing the weight of her words, the bite of her anger. "Tell me what you did. Tell me why my daughter is still in the Underworld. TELL ME!"

A set of invisible fingers wrapped around his throat and Mr. Gold couldn't keep the words from spilling off his tongue.

"A long time ago, I bartered with Mephistopheles to save my boy's life when he was a child," he said. "In exchange, I promised him my second-born."

The others looked around themselves in confusion, except for Mary Margaret, who kept her eyes trained on Mr. Gold. It was Robin who finally broke the quiet between them all.

"But you don't have a…"

"I didn't then," Mr. Gold said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "I do now."

"Belle's pregnant," David realized.

He nodded, not matching any of their eyes. David rubbed at his chin.

"I don't understand," he said. "What does any of this have to do with Emma and Hook?"

"I couldn't lose another child. Not after I lost Bae." Mr. Gold hesitated as long as the dagger's mental grasp allowed him to. "So I helped Mephistopheles make a new deal—a substitute for my own."

"You traded Emma for your child," Mary Margaret said. She didn't realize that it was her own anger, not the blade's dark magic, causing her body to shake. "You traded MY daughter—"

"No," Mr. Gold cut her off, sharp as the ancient weapon's tip. "I traded Emma's child for my own."

"You what?" Regina snarled, throwing out an instinctive arm across Henry.

Mr. Gold shook his head.

"Not the lad. I may not be the hero the lot of you are, but I wouldn't trade my own grandson to that beast," he said. He paused, then added, "I was referring to her new child."

"But Emma doesn't—" began David.

"Yes, well, about that—perhaps you shouldn't have allowed Miss Swan so much alone time with a certain pirate back in Camelot," Mr. Gold said.

"Emma's pregnant?"

"We're having another grandchild?"

David and Mary Margaret's voices rang out in unison.

"Well congratulations," Regina chimed in. "I'm sure her father will teach her how to apply her eyeliner someday."

"Does she know?" Mary Margaret asked. "Do they know?"

"They do now, I suppose."

"So you gave our grandchild to Mephistopheles," she said, wondering just how twisted of a beast he really was if he thought that made things any better.

"Oh no, dearie, that wasn't my decision to make," Mr. Gold said, his eyes glinting in a malicious way. He might have been under Mary Margaret's command, but he refused to submit his spirit to her. Even with the dagger in Snow White's grasp, he still had his future secured in his own: his child's safety, his wife's trust. His happy ending was still his—they couldn't take it away, and even if they could, they lacked the malice to do it. "You see, Mephistopheles can't subjugate a human being willingly. There has to be a mutual agreement… a deal, you could say. A deal your dear Miss Swan was all too willing to make."

"No," Mary Margaret hissed. "Emma would never put her child in danger. You planned this, didn't you? You betrayed her. You betrayed all of us, again!"

"She wanted her pirate back, and that's what she got. I upheld my end of the bargain," Mr. Gold said.

"How could you be so sure Emma would even go to the Underworld?" Regina asked.

"The same reason why I'm doing this. It's all about love, dearie, and how far you're willing to go to keep from losing it." He looked directly at her as he added, "You of all people should know what a person is capable of when they want something badly enough."

"How could you?" asked Mary Margaret. "How could you take Emma away from us again?"

"Technically," Mr. Gold waggled his finger upwards, "your daughter is free to go once the child is born."

"A mother would never leave her—"

Mr. Gold scoffed as he cut her off.

"Don't tell me what mothers will and won't do, dearie, because I've seen it myself."

"It didn't have to be this way, Gold," said David. "You could have told us. We could have found another way to break your deal, we could have helped you!"

"I don't need your help," Mr. Gold said. "I did what was necessary to protect my family."

"At the expense of ours!" cried Mary Margaret.

"Is it any different than what you did, all of those years ago?" Mr. Gold wondered aloud. "Sentencing Maleficent's child to a path of darkness, while securing Miss Swan's fate to the one you desired most for her?"

"That was completely different—" started David.

"It was exactly the same!"

"What about my dad?" Henry asked weakly. It was the first he'd spoken, and the words crept out of his throat unsteadily. "What would he say if he knew what you've done?"

Mr. Gold hesitated, caught off-guard by the sadness of his grandson's voice and the pang of guilt that briefly took residence in his stomach. He stumbled over the right words for a moment.

"He isn't here," he said, sharper than intended. "It doesn't matter."

"Enough," Mary Margaret said firmly. "Get us back to the Underworld. Even if I can't get them out right away, at least I can be with Emma and—"

"And what, your highness? Abandon your son the way you did her? There's nothing you can do, dearie, even if you find another way there. You'll find that Mephistopheles seals his deals with something far more binding than any magic I'm capable of. You'd best give up now."

Mary Margaret glared at him.

" _No_ ," she said with startling finality. "I'll never give up. Not on Emma. Not on Killian. Not on my grandchild."

"I still don't understand," came Robin's voice. "If Mephistopheles doesn't owe you anything, why just trade one child for the other? What's in it for him?"

"Because," Mr. Gold started, his eyes glittering strangely. "Miss Swan's child is the child of True Love."

Regina blanched.

"Are you saying yours isn't?"

"Of course it is," he snapped, looking offended. "But thanks to the two of you," he gestured to the Charmings, "her baby is also the _grandchild_ of True Love. That kind of magical potential is hard to come by in any realm."

"What is Mephistopheles planning on doing with the child?" Robin asked uneasily.

"That I don't know."

Mary Margaret wouldn't have believed him if not for the blade trembling in her grip, assuring his truthfulness. With more force than such a lightweight weapon should have required, she let it drop to her side.

"Let me talk to Emma," she said sternly. "There must be a way for us to do something."

"Communicating between dimensions is no easy feat, your highness," Mr. Gold sneered.

"Neither is forgiving your husband for lying about giving up your dark magic," she shot back. "You don't want Belle finding out about that, do you? Or about what you've done to ensure your child's freedom?"

A suffocated chuckle forced itself from his pursed lips. The conversation felt oddly like the one he'd had with Emma the day before.

"That's quite the family resemblance you have there," he noted. "How… _charming_."

Still, he took her threat to heart, just as he had Emma's. He'd come too far to risk losing his Belle to the royals' loose lips. His dark eyes flitted around his shop, bouncing from one ware to the next. They settled on a mirror tucked in the corner, veiled thinly in dust and half-covered by a dingy sheet. It was old and cumbersome, with an elaborate dark frame that wrapped around it in a wreath of metal thorns. Once upon a time, it might have been grand, but now it simply looked like a discarded piece of junk.

He'd never managed to identify its original owner, despite his extensive record-keeping. Its craftsmanship wasn't common to the Enchanted Forest, nor was its odd power. He raised his gaze to meet the ragtag group of heroes and spoke calmly.

"Fortunately for you, I might be able to arrange something."

* * *

Emma didn't remember falling asleep, only waking in a bath of rust-colored light and a pair of strong arms locked around her belly with a fond pressure. She rolled over and into Killian, tucked her head beneath his chin and pressed a breathy kiss against the scruff of his throat. Her nails scratched lazy patterns against his chest as she sighed sleepily as his hand traveled up and down her back.

In her half-asleep state, she couldn't keep herself from thinking that it was meant to be, the way their hearts throbbed together. They aligned so perfectly, never missing a beat, almost as if they shared one soul—one heart—between their two bodies. One clarifying moment later, she realized it was because they _did_ , and the longest day of Emma Swan's life came rushing back to her.

Her eyes fluttered open and flew wide as the red-brown hues of the Underworld assaulted her. The unnatural sunlight bathed the room in odd colors, and glinted strangely off the unicorn ornaments hanging over her old crib. Emma scrambled upright, breathing so fast her curls shook with her. She looked frantically at Killian as he sat up too. He looked as though he hadn't slept at all.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked.

"Aye, a few hours ago," came his reply. Before she could argue, Killian continued, "You needed your rest, love. You both do."

Emma shook her head.

"What I need is a way to get us the hell out of here. I'll sleep when we're home."

"I suppose we are home, in a way." Killian smiled at her in a way he hoped was reassuring. He reached his hook to her face, pushing her sleep-messed hair behind her ears.

"Yeah," Emma said a little sadly. "Not exactly how I thought our first night in our house would go."

Killian raised his eyebrows. Emma dipped her head with a smile, knowing just what she'd gotten herself into.

"Now Swan, exactly how did you envision our first night going?"

He bent down his head so that his lips brushed her cheeks lightly; his touch, however slight, sent shivers through Emma's nerves. Her whole body trembled, leaving Killian to delight in her reaction. He moved his mouth to the hollow of her temple, then to her lips, which he claimed with purposeful slowness.

"Tell me, love, was it something like— _mmmph_!"

She had reached up and pulled him down to her, and the rest of Killian's words were lost against Emma's mouth. He kissed her tenderly, carefully, but that gentleness wasn't what she wanted, not now. Emma wanted to forget, to lose herself in the moment, in _him_ , and revel in the promise of the life that should have been—no, that would still be theirs. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him harder against her. He groaned softly, low in his throat; his arms circled her, gathering her tightly against his body. They rolled over on the mattress, tangled together, kissing desperately, whispering love and desire as the Underworld's unnatural heat beat down on them through their bedroom window. It wasn't the time or the place, but their love was never wrong.

Enraptured by one another, his hand was climbing her waist and hers gripping his hips when they heard something—a faint _thud_ on the other side of the bathroom door.

Emma stared up at Killian, breathless as they came apart.

"Did you hear that?"

"Aye." Killian sat up with her, hand and hook hovering protectively over her middle. "Stay here, love, I'll—"

"No. Wait," Emma said, closing her fingers briefly around his wrist. She could hear something on the other side of the door, something more than the banging noise that had such rude timing. She was sure they were voices, so muffled she could barely make them out but so familiar she couldn't mistake them.

"Mom? Dad?" Emma asked hesitantly as she moved towards the bathroom door.


	9. Mirror Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I'm very sorry for the delay in and quality of this chapter. I am heartbroken to say that I lost a very precious family member when I was halfway through writing it and it's been terribly hard for me to continue with him being gone. I decided to make it a bit shorter than I typically like, and I hope I'll make up for it in the next chapter, because he liked that I wrote and I certainly don't want to give up on my passion now. Thank you all for sticking with me and this story!

The old mirror was heavier than it looked, and larger than its tattered half-covering betrayed. As Regina swept herself and the others away from Mr. Gold's shop in a plummy fog, David strained to support the artifact in his arms. At least he didn't have to for long—the once evil queen's magic worked quickly, and in a fraction of a second, the russet walls became cream, and he realized they were standing in the middle of Killian and Emma's bathroom.

Motioning for Robin's help, the two men lifted the mirror into place. It looked nearly worthless as it hung on the wall. A thin dust veil blanketed its surface, no matter how many times Mary Margaret smoothed her dainty hands across it. Cracks stretched from its corners like spider webs, thin and foreboding. It couldn't even offer up a proper reflection: the images it portrayed back were dim and unfocused, like it couldn't see into the world right in front of it.

If Mr. Gold were to be believed, that was exactly the point.

He'd told them everything he knew of the old relic, his bitter tongue merciless at the dagger's behest. The mirror was from a faraway land he knew not the name of, infused with an ancient blood magic that allowed cross-realm communication between its users as long as they shared familial ties. It was everything he could have ever wanted in his quest to find Baelfire, but it came into his possession many decades, mistakes and a dark curse too late.

Following Gold's instructions, David reached out to the wreath of metal thorns around the mirror's edge. One of the curved pieces jumped to life and jabbed his thumb; he winced as a red ribbon dripped down the length of his finger. The strange artifact siphoned his blood as if through a straw. A reddish tinge spread through its dark frame, coloring the metal not unlike the Underworld's gruesome sky.

As the thorns turned copper, a tremor rolled beneath their heels. It caused Mary Margaret to shout, and Regina to snatch up Henry in her arms. The house rattled with violent urgency. For a dragging moment, the band of heroes wondered if it would give way to the rapacious sea.

Just as suddenly, the shaking settled into an eerie calm. Trading wary glances and nursing bruised nerves, the group turned to the mirror as its dull reflection began to warp and change. The haziness cleared like a parting of clouds, revealing not sunlight, but a macabre version of the room they stood in. Decorations hung crookedly on cracked, fading walls; the very air was colored the Underworld's signature red.

Gasping, Mary Margaret reached out to the glass, pressing her fingertips against its cool surface.

"Emma?" she asked, her voice scarcely a whisper. "EMMA!"

Shouting and banging, she cried out for her daughter, for the man who was as good as her son, for the grandchild she hardly knew of, but already loved with her whole heart. Her husband's deeper voice joined with hers, his knuckles smashing against the glass so harshly that any other mirror would have cracked beneath the force.

"EMMA!" yelled David. "Emma, can you hear us?"

Emma could hear _something_ —and the closer she crept to the door, the more certain she was of what was on the other side. Her heart beat rapidfire in her chest, echoed in her eardrums, pulsed in her veins. Some logical part of her cried out, reminded her that this could be another one of Mephistopheles' tricks; or maybe she was just hearing Killian, who rushed to her before she threw open the door.

She saw them and they saw her, and tears and shrieks made up their semblance of a reunion. Emma lost herself in the strange mirror she was sure she never put there, entranced in a reflection not of her own self, but of her parents and her son. She pressed her hand against where Henry's was flattened on the other side of the glass, holding in her throat something between a shout and a sob.

"Henry?" Emma whispered. "Henry, are you alright?"

"Love?" Killian sounded concerned. He shadowed over her, staring at their fuzzy reflection in the mirror. He slipped his arms around her waist, holding her carefully. "Are you alright, love? Why d'you think you're talking to your boy?"

"What?" Emma jerked up her head, looking between Killian and the mirror. In a happier, safer frame of mind, she would have asked him when his last drink of rum was. "What are you talking about? Don't you see them?"

"See who, Emma?" he asked, cocking his head and brow.

"Emma?" Mary Margaret's voice was soft. "Is Killian there with you?"

"He's uh, right behind me," said Emma, screwing her face up. First Killian, now her mom and dad? She gazed into the strange mirror and couldn't keep from noticing the wicked thorns that curled around her parents' faces. "You can't see a six foot pirate dressed in black leather?"

"Excuse you Swan, I'm at least six-two," said Killian, causing Emma to bat his hand.

Mary Margaret shook her head, laughing faintly at what she was sure was an adorable reaction between the two—even if she could only see one of them.

"It uses blood magic," she explained, and Emma looked relieved. She'd seen enough things in her head when the Darkness wore at her sanity in Camelot. As she quickly told Killian, Mary Margaret continued, "Robin and Regina are here too."

"How did you even know how to find us?" Emma asked.

"It's what we do, Emma. We find each other," Mary Margaret said. "Are the two of you okay? Is the baby okay?"

Emma's mouth dropped.

"How do you—"

"Gold told us everything," said David. He couldn't bear telling her that he _caused_ everything, too.

"She's fine," murmured Emma, dropping an instinctive hand to her middle. Her fingers tangled around Killian's hook, protectively pressed against the place where their child grew. She smiled sadly, knowing that she _wasn't_ fine, knowing that thanks to her, her life belonged to a monster as much as it did to them, and if they couldn't find a way to defeat Mephistopheles or broker a new deal…

"The baby's a girl?" Mary Margaret asked excitedly. As her daughter nodded, her lips curled, catching the tears that trailed her cheeks. The life she meant for Emma danced gracefully behind her mind's eye, a world of tiaras and ball dresses and dances with handsome princes—or pirates, as it turned out. "Oh honey," she beamed, "I'm so proud of you."

"Don't be," Emma said in a breath. "She'd be safe if it weren't for me."

"Emma," mumbled Killian. He didn't need to hear the other half of the conversation to know what she was implying. He bowed his head against the curve of shoulder, kissing the part in her curls that left her skin exposed. "Don't say that. She's safe because of you. Because you're her mother and I bloody well know you'll do anything for her."

"I love you," Emma whispered thankfully, kissing his dark hair as he murmured love back to her ear.

Mary Margaret smiled as she watched her daughter's expression soften.

"Whatever he said—he's right, you know. None of this is your fault, baby. We're going to fix it."

" _How_?" Emma asked.

"We… don't know exactly," David admitted. "But we know leaving the Underworld isn't impossible. Mephistopheles has a child, Blackheart, who left some time ago. There's a way out, Emma. We just have to find it."

Emma made a disapproving sound

"I'm pretty sure the son of the devil has some pull we don't," she said flatly.

"Technically he's not the devil," piped Henry.

"He's sure not an angel, kid."

"Maybe not," Henry couldn't keep from smiling, "but good always wins. Evil doesn't give up, but that's okay because we're stronger! I believe in us, Mom. I believe in our family. I believe that love can overcome anything. You guys all taught me that."

He looked around at the love surrounding him: his grandparents, both his mothers and their loves—even the one he couldn't see, but could still feel—and his resolve strengthened. Henry turned back to Emma and beamed as she ghosted a kiss to the strange glass, against where his forehead was.

"You're going to be the best big brother ever, did you know that?"

"I know," he said without pause. "That's what I'm calling this one Operation Cygnet."

"Cygnet?" David asked.

"A baby swan," Henry explained, and Emma wished desperately she could pull her son into her arms and hug him for a long while.

"Alright kid. What's the plan?"

Henry grinned.

"First things first, we need to do a little research…"

* * *

Mephistopheles had a mirror of his own.

He hobbled around his vaulted room, studying the floating sphere with a sneering look. It was a seeing spell not unlike the one he used to taunt Killian with his twisted take of Storybrooke, this time magnified so he could watch the scene unfolding near the blackened seashore.

His long coat flew behind him as he made lazy circles, gnashing his teeth while he listened in on them. He had half a mind to find the soul who told them of his son and pitch them into one of the Underworld's twining, infernal rivers, but he sated himself, knowing they would never find Blackheart when even he couldn't.

Mephistopheles could venture into the world of the living when he pleased, though he much preferred his sprawling kingdom of the bloodless. He mainly ascended to earth on business, crafting and making good on deals with mortals like Rumpelstiltskin. For a time, however, he'd searched for his son in the overworld. He never returned with anything more than a few new souls for his hellish realm.

Although he called him his son, Blackheart was really no more his than any of the empty beings that wandered his grimy, sulfur-laden streets. He was born and grown in a day, birthed by no mother but by the decades' old accumulation of evil in a forgotten New York town. There was no gradualness to his being: he was the same man on the day of his "birth" that he was when he betrayed his father and fled their shared realm.

If only waiting for the Savior's child was so easy.

Nine months stacked feebly against the hundred lifetimes he'd lived, but having to wait for _anything_ was foreign to Mephistopheles. He eyed the seeing orb, watched the mortals disperse as they set out on their next adventure. It was amusing, the way they thought they could outsmart him. He closed his gangly, heavily ringed fingers and dispelled the seeing orb with as little effort as it took him to summon it. _That_ was the instant gratification he was accustomed to.

Still, he wouldn't stop them—not now, when they were no real threat to him or his plans. He would let them cling to their belief that they could defeat him, that the battle wasn't already won and the child wasn't already signed to him in her mother's blood. He would revel in the hope they thought they had, and when the last semblance of it drained from their eyes, he would delight in his ultimate victory.


End file.
